


when you listen

by PaperRevolution



Series: outer-space mover [7]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, First Kiss, M/M, Trans Awareness Week 2017, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, backstory angst, bros of Gondolin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 09:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12745503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperRevolution/pseuds/PaperRevolution
Summary: Space AU. A sleepless night, an origin-story of sorts, an admission of affection. Apparently, it's always honesty hour for Glorfindel and Ecthelion. (Written for Trans Awareness Week).





	when you listen

**Author's Note:**

> 1.) Warning for mentions of transphobia--in particularly, transphobic family members.  
> 2.) Also, warning for very brief mention of disordered eating.

They lie in their bunks in the dark with the silence ringing all around.

Ecthelion can’t sleep. He turns onto his side, pulling the thin woven blanket and even thinner cotton sheet right up to his chin. Then he flips over onto his back, casting the blanket and sheet into a messy mound at his waist. He stares up into the grainy blackness and exhales fretfully.

“Whuzmatter?” Glorfindel’s voice, indistinct, floats up from the bottom bunk. “’M’tryna sleep.”

“Sorry,” Ecthelion whispers, curling onto his side again.

There’s a rustle of cotton, a soft release of breath. The faint creak of the bunk’s metal frame as Glorfindel gets up. A faint blue light flickers on.

Ecthelion props himself up on an elbow. “What’re you doing?”

“I’m coming up,” Glorfindel says.

“Wh—” Ecthelion starts, but the rungs of the ladder to the top bunk are already grumbling in rusty protest, and a moment later the top of Glorfindel’s head appears—his tumult of curls silvery-pale in the lamplight—followed quickly by the rest of him. He pulls himself up onto the bed, wriggling himself into a comfortable position lying stretched out on his side, facing Ecthelion.

“Okay,” says Glorfindel, managing to sound somehow both bright and businesslike. “I feel like we should talk about what happened earlier, otherwise you’re not going to sleep all night and I somehow don’t think Turukáno’s gonna want to put up with Espresso Ehtelë all day tomorrow.”

Ecthelion huffs out a breath somewhere between a half-laugh and a sigh. “Shut up,” he says lightly, “Espresso me is the best me.”

A smile tugs at the corners of Glorfindel’s mouth. “Debatable,” he replies. Then his expression grows serious.

“Ah, shit,” says Ecthelion. “You look like you’re thinking. That’s never good.”

Suppressing a laugh, Glorfindel reaches out and shoves his shoulder, gently. A moment passes, and then he says, carefully casual: “So, Fëanáro’s a real piece of work, huh? Doing a thing like that to his own kids. He must be pretty desperate, that’s all I can say.”

Despite himself, Ecthelion feels his whole body tense up. “I don’t care how desperate he is,” he blurts out, “It’s sick, like Rog said. It’s disgusting! He can’t just—he doesn’t get to just take away someone’s freedom of choice like that! And then if things don’t go his way, he’s just, what, going to obliterate someone’s entire identity? His own sons’ entire identities! That’s—I just—I can’t—”

And now Glorfindel is looking at him with strange and uncharacteristic trepidation. “Thel,” he says slowly, “What happened to your family?”

Ecthelion’s heart stutters, missing a beat. “My—what?”

“Your family,” there’s a little crease of consternation between Glorfindel’s eyes. “I’ve…I’ve never heard you talk about them, I don’t think. And I feel like a complete idiot for only realising it just now.”

For a moment, Ecthelion considers telling him that they’re dead; that they were killed by MRGTH militants. It would be easier. Glorfindel would say he was sorry and then they’d just go back to not talking about this, ever.

“They’re back on Valinor,” he says, and the name of his home planet spoken aloud like that makes his insides twist up into something cold and shrivelled. “They—I left when I was pretty young.”

Glorfindel’s expression is intent and wide-eyed and hesitant. “Why?”

He lets out a short laugh. “Why do you think? I was stupid enough to tell them the truth about—about me, and they couldn’t deal with it. It was all, what had they done to deserve this? It was all, ‘Ilúvatar made you; Ilúvatar intended you to be a woman’ and ‘if you spit on the will of the Gods, then you disgrace this family’. The word ‘unnatural’ was thrown around a lot.”

The sound that Glorfindel makes is incredulous and pained. “That’s— What—?”

Ecthelion shrugs a shoulder. “It wasn’t that bad. It isn’t like they ever hit me or anything.”

“How is that the benchmark here?!” Glorfindel’s expression is thunderstruck and thunderous. “Gods, what did they—Did you run away, or did they kick you out?”

He wills himself to speak, but no words come.

“Shit, Thel, how old were you?”

In his mind he’s fourteen again, weak-kneed from starving his body into being narrow-hipped and flat-chested. He’s a kid with a smashed mirror and bloody knuckles and hands shaking too much to bind, and with no idea what to do or where to go or how the fuck to make all of this just stop.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, in a voice that doesn’t sound like his.

If Turukáno hadn’t found him, he knows he’d probably be dead. Turukáno, who hadn’t asked questions until he was ready to answer them. Turukáno, who had quietly and efficiently arranged for him to speak to a medic who could help him start the process of becoming himself. 

Turukáno who, almost five years later, had assigned his newest recruit—tall and blond and beaming—to the empty bunk below Ecthelion’s, saying with the sort of easy smile reserved only for those closest to him: “I think you’ll like Laurëfindil—as long as the pair of you don’t talk each other to death.”

“I’m sorry,” says Glorfindel now. “You don’t have to—”

“Fourteen,” Ecthelion hears himself tell him. “I was fourteen. Just.” He lets out a breath. “I wasn’t on my own for that long, though. Turukáno saw me getting into a fight with some kids on Alqualondë and, I don’t know, decided I was cadet material, I guess. Fuck knows why; I was getting completely destroyed by those guys.” He laughs, but it sounds false and forced.

Glorfindel’s eyes, solemn and earnest, are fixed on his face. “Thank you for telling me,” he says. He pauses for a moment, and there’s something like doubt in his expression and Ecthelion immediately wants to take it all back; to tell him to forget it all. “Can I—Is it all right if—Can I be honest with you about something, too?”

Ecthelion blinks. “Uh. Yeah?”

This reaction does not appear to encourage Glorfindel, who swallows visibly and lets out a long breath in several tiny increments. “Okay,” he says, as though steeling himself for something. “Okay. Right. Well.”

Pause.

And then, in a rush:

“I like you. I really like you. And I don’t wanna make you feel bad or guilty or anything, but I needed to tell you. And it’s okay if you’re not interested—I promise you it’s not gonna change anything. We can still be friends; I swear I’d be okay with that. I’m not gonna go all weird and sulky and—What? What is it? Why do you have that look on your face? Are you okay? Please don’t freak out, just—forget I said anything—”

“I don’t think you get it,” he interrupts, and realises with a dull sort of horror that his voice is all choked up. “I’m not—You deserve—You deserve better. You deserve someone who isn’t a fucking freak of nature, for a start—”

“Hey!” It’s Glorfindel’s turn to interject, and there’s real anger in his voice, for once. “Stop. Stop it. You’re not a—”

He has no idea what makes him do it; what gives him the pure reckless courage.

He leans in, closing the small distance between them, and kisses Glorfindel. Fiercely.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, I'm incapable of writing POV-characters who don't have awful, horrible backstories. Par for the course with the likes of Maedhros, because canon, but I don't know what the heck Ecthelion ever did to deserve this.
> 
> However, Turgon is surrogate-big-brother goals. And actual big brother goals. I have new love for him.


End file.
